No Witness

by Warren C Easley

“Oh, of course. Those kids, my God. How could you deport people who’ve spent their whole lives here? No matter how they got here, that’s just flat-out wrong.”

  “He gave me a card with his cell phone number on it. It said he was a DACA recipient, too.” Whack. I split another cedar round.

  Gertie furrowed her brow. “I don’t know what DACA stands for, but I do know it was something that Obama did to protect those kids, right?”

  “That’s right. It stands for Deferred Action on Childhood Arrivals. In other words, we’ll defer decisions on deporting Dreamers until we can get a final resolution in Congress.”

  Gertie made a sour face. “I thought our current president killed that program. No mercy for the unwitting lawbreakers.”

  “He tried, about two years ago, and it’s being fought in the courts now. It’ll wind up at the Supreme Court.”

  “Well, this whole damn immigration mess needs fixing.” She swept a hand toward the rolling landscape falling away to the south of us and shook her head. “Without immigrant labor, the wine industry wouldn’t exist here, or it’d be just a rich man’s hobby producing a trickle of wine. And you can bet a high percentage of those workers are undocumented.”

  I agreed, and at the same time felt an unexpected twinge of guilt. She was right. The explosive growth of vineyards in the Red Hills had been driven by this immigrant workforce—men and women willing to do backbreaking labor, work that most Americans shun. They worked in the vineyards surrounding me and then retreated into a world I knew very little about and had very little appreciation for. That seemed wrong, somehow, even shameful.

  After finishing up the log-splitting and stacking, I left with half a homemade blackberry pie, my reward from a grateful neighbor who was also a dynamite cook. Back at the Aerie, I began rummaging around in my kitchen for something to eat. I’d put off my shopping, as usual, but I did manage to root out an onion, a bell pepper, and a clove of garlic, which brought to mind penne arrabbiata, one of my favorite pasta dishes. The thought of it caused me to salivate.

  After confirming I had a can of diced tomatoes, a jar of olives, red pepper flakes, and enough penne pasta, I poured myself a glass of local pinot, put some Wynton Marsalis on the sound system, and set to work at the chopping block.

  Water was boiling, ingredients were sautéing, and Marsalis’s quartet was halfway through “Angel Eyes” when my cell phone rang.

  “Cal, it’s Gertie. Can you come? I don’t feel so well.” Her voice was faint, labored.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve got a goddamn elephant sitting on my chest. I can hardly breathe.”

  “Did you call 911?” I took her hesitation for a no. “I’ll be right there after I call them. And if you can get to an aspirin bottle, chew one right now.”

  “The aspirin’s upstairs,” she said in a near whisper. “Bring some.”

  I made the call, turned the burners off, and flew out the front door with a bottle of aspirin in my hand. Alert for gopher holes, I sprinted across my upper acreage with Archie at my side, yelping excitedly. The lights were blazing on the first floor of Gertie’s old, shiplap-clad four square. I burst through the kitchen door and found her lying on an antique daybed in the dining room.

  She looked up at me, her eyes fluttering and unfocused, her face chalky white. “Thanks for coming, Cal. Christ almighty, this hurts,” she said, managing to smile defiantly through the pain.

  I took her hand. “I know it hurts, Gertie. Stay with me. An ambulance is on the way.” I gave her an aspirin before taking her pulse, which was ragged and weak. She stayed conscious, and sixteen minutes later Archie alerted us that help had arrived. I watched as two paramedics loaded her into the ambulance and connected her to a portable EKG unit before taking off. I took Archie back to the Aerie, told him to guard the castle, and headed for the Newberg Medical Center.

  ***

  “She’s had a serious myocardial infarction,” a young emergency doc told me an hour later. “We’ve stabilized her, and we’re about to transfer her to the St. Vincent thoracic surgery unit in Portland. They’ll decide next steps.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Bypass surgery, almost certainly.”

  My gut tightened. “What’s the prognosis?”

  “Good. She appears strong.” He allowed a thin smile. “And she strikes me as a fighter.”

  I returned the smile. “Oh, she’s that, for sure.”

  “She mentioned a sister in Seattle but didn’t have a number, said you might have it.”

  “Yes, I’ll take care of contacting her.”

  “The procedure will probably be in the morning, early. There’s a narrow window of opportunity for these cases,” he explained. “The sooner the better.”

  “When can I see her?”

  “Don’t come the first day. She’ll hate you for it, if she remembers anything. Day after tomorrow, earliest.”

  I nodded. “She’s a worrier, too. If you can, tell her I’ll keep an eye on her place and feed her worthless cat.”

  The doc kept a straight face. “I’ll be sure to tell her that.”

  On my way back to Dundee, I called Gertie’s sister and brother-in-law and reached their daughter instead. I’d heard about Gertie’s niece over the years but never met her. “They’re on a monthlong cruise,” she said after she recovered from the shock of the news. “I just happened to be here checking the place and watering the plants.” She promised to get in touch with the couple, and I told her I’d keep her in the loop.

  Next I called Nando, who loved Gertie dearly, and left a message with his office manager.

  When Arch and I got back to the Aerie, he reared up and placed his paws on my chest, something he rarely did. I scratched his head. “She’s strong and she’s a fighter, Big Boy,” I told him. “She’s going to be okay.” He lowered his paws and wagged his stump of a tail. I took the gesture to mean he understood me, or maybe it was just that he figured I was finally going to feed him.

  Chapter Three

  “Um, Cal, this is my sister, Olivia,” Timoteo said with a look of obvious pride. It was two days later, he’d accepted my job offer, and was reporting for his first day of work after a morning of classes. “She’s dropping me off, and I wanted you to meet her.” Trim, with lustrous ebony hair draped over one shoulder and restless dark eyes, Olivia Fuentes had a modest smile with the same radiant quality as her brother’s.

  I invited her to sit down, but she hesitated, glancing at her brother and then back at me. “I have some more stops to make, and I’m running late.”

  Timoteo shrugged and opened his hands. “We have four drivers in the family and only two cars.”

  As Olivia was leaving, she turned to me and showed the full brilliance of her smile. “Timoteo is very excited about working for you, Mr. Claxton. Thank you for hiring him. You won’t regret it.”

  I gave my new hire a brief overview of my practice and took him through some of the tasks I had in mind for him—filing, keeping track of billable hours, answering the phone. “I’ve also got a pro bono practice,” I said at one point, “which takes me to Portland most Fridays. I was thinking you could cover the office here.”

  He beamed a smile. “That works for me. I don’t have any classes at all on Fridays.”

  By way of summary, I said, “The key thing about this work is confidentiality. Everything having to do with the business is confidential—names of clients, the nature of any litigation, exchanges you might overhear between me and a client, the content of letters you file, everything—understood?”

  “Got it.”

  I smiled. “And lose the tie. Every day’s Friday casual around here.”

  After we finished the orientation, I handed him a stack of unfiled papers just as a client arrived to join a conference call with her soon-to-be ex-husband and his lawyer. We began discus
sing how to divide up the assets and got stuck on who was going to get the family dog, a ten-year-old Chihuahua.

  “Cha Cha never liked you, Byron, and you didn’t give a damn about her,” my client shot back at her husband, “And now you want her? Are you kidding me?”

  The discussion went south from there, and, although we eventually came to an agreement, I felt a twinge of embarrassment. This was probably not what my new employee imagined I did with my time. But he’d learn soon enough that work like this kept the ship afloat and allowed me to do my pro bono work and tackle cases that interested me.

  It was close to four when I got off the call and saw my client out. Timoteo had already put a nice dent in the stack of unfiled papers. “Come on,” I said, “let’s get a coffee.” I clipped on Archie’s leash before we dashed across the Pacific Highway and over a block to the Red Hills Market, where I tethered my dog to an outside table. We took our drinks outside, and I unclipped Arch, who wolfed down a treat the waiter had given him and chose a spot next to Timoteo to lie down. It was a sign he liked the young man. Archie’s reaction to people was something I always paid attention to. He was an excellent judge of character.

  “How’s it going as a DACA recipient these days?” I asked.

  Timoteo drew a breath and exhaled. “We’re in legal limbo.” He pursed his lips, shaking his head. “Maybe I should’ve listened to my father. He told me not to sign up. He didn’t trust the government, even Obama’s government.”

  “What did the Feds ask for when you signed up?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Everything. Current and past addresses, fingerprints, phone numbers, height and weight, and a lot more. Oh, and five hundred dollars every other year. Look, I think Congress started with good intentions. The DREAM Act provided a pathway to citizenship, you know, but then it went nowhere in the Senate for years.” He locked onto my eyes. “Did you know that in 2010 it failed to pass the Senate by just five votes?”

  I shook my head. “I had no idea the issue’s been around that long.”

  Timoteo curled a lip. “Now the current administration has the DACA database, a handy guide to the people they’d love to deport.”

  “Weren’t assurances given when you signed up that your information would be protected?”

  “Sure, we were told we fall under the federal Privacy Act, so no worries. What we weren’t told is that Homeland Security could easily exempt themselves from the act. Federal agencies do shit like that all the time.”

  “How are you coping?”

  He brought his chin up and smiled. “I’m not going to cower in the shadows. I crossed that bridge. I don’t care who knows I’m a Dreamer.”

  “Is your sister a Dreamer, too?”

  “No. She was born on this side of the border.” The proud look again. “She’ll start at Oregon next year on an academic scholarship. She delayed her start a year to save up some money.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She works for Prosperar—a nonprofit that provides health care services for migrant workers. She wants to be a doctor.”

  I sipped my cappuccino. “I’ve heard Prosperar does good work,”

  “They’re awesome. And they’re lucky to have her.” He laughed. “She practically runs the place.”

  “What’s your father doing?”

  Another look of pride. “He started as a laborer here in the Red Hills and worked his way up to become vineyard manager at Angel Vineyard.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Angel Vineyard was one of the largest wineries in the area. “Good for him.”

  “There’s nobody better at growing grapes, and he knows wine-making, too. His dream is to become a winemaker someday.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “A small town in the state of Jalisco. He came here to work in the fields over twenty years ago. After he got established, he sent for my mother and my brother and me. I was four when we came across. My brother was close to two.”

  “How did you get here?”

  He shrugged. “My parents don’t talk about it much. I know we were brought across by some coyotes my father trusted. I don’t remember much about it, except for a long, hot ride in the back of a truck, and listening to Luis cry. I do know it cost every cent my father had managed to save.”

  I could only imagine the enormity of that decision. “It must have been a harrowing time for your mother.”

  Timoteo nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, it was, but she was as determined as my father to make a better life for the family. It wasn’t a hard decision for them, I think.” He studied his coffee for a few moments, looked up, and smiled. “I heard she guarded Luis and me on that trip like a mother bear.”

  “I’ll bet she did. What’s she doing now?”

  His brow furrowed. “She’s sorting grapes at Angel. In the off-season, she cleans rich people’s houses.” He smiled. “But her main job is running our house and everyone in it. She’s the real boss of the family, but don’t tell my father.”

  “What’s your brother doing?”

  I thought I saw tension enter Timoteo’s eyes. “Luis is, um, still trying to figure out what he wants to do with his life.”

  “Did he sign up for DACA?”

  “No, he couldn’t be bothered.” Timoteo smiled ruefully and shook his head. “That’s probably the only time Luis took our father’s advice.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Nothing right now. He was working in the kitchen of a restaurant in Newberg, but the place closed down.”

  We crossed the highway back to the office. While Timoteo resumed the filing, I wrote up the property settlement I’d just negotiated and then called St. Vincent’s the second time that day to check on Gertie’s condition. The bypass surgery had gone well, and she continued to be in satisfactory condition, I was told. A short visit the following day might be possible. I was to call first.

  By the time Olivia arrived to pick up Timoteo, a squall had blown in from the south. She parked in the lot behind my building, and before her brother had his coat on, she rapped at the back door. I opened it, and she entered with wet hair and laughter, producing a bag from under her coat. “This is from our mother,” she said, handing the bag to me. “They’re homemade tamales, Guadalajara-style.” She swung her eyes to Timoteo, then back to me. “She heard you’re a bachelor and thought you could make a dinner from them.” Her smile lit the room.

  Timoteo watched to gauge my reaction. I opened the bag and smelled the contents. “Umm, smells delicious. This is too kind, Olivia. Please thank your mother for me.”

  Timoteo pointed to the bag, looking relieved. “Those go well with salsa verde. Mamá loves to cook for people.”

  The brother and sister hurried off, but not before Olivia fawned over Archie, who, of course, loved every moment of her attention. That dog of mine had a way with women. I opened the bag of tamales, which were still warm, and inhaled the aroma again, picking up notes of coriander, cumin, and another spice I couldn’t quite place. I turned to Arch, whose eyes were fixed longingly on the bag, his nostrils quivering slightly. “Nothin’ doing, Big Boy, this is people food.” He wagged his stump of a tail, pretending not to understand me. I laughed. “Should have hired that young man a long time ago.”

  Chapter Four

  Although Gertie’s eyes looked particularly blue against her pale skin, they lacked their typical sparkle and playfulness. It was the next day, and I’d come to the ICU at St. Vincent’s to check in on her. The room smelled of antiseptic, and a thicket of tubes, corrugated hoses, and wires ran from her body in all directions, while a monitor displayed a half dozen vital signs in living color, pulsing and beeping in a rhythmic, reassuring way.

  I set down a vase with a large spray of fall flowers.

  “Jesus, Cal, are those for me?”

  “No. I brought them for the nurses. How are you feeling?”<
br />
  She managed a wisp of a smile. “Terrible, but a lot better. I think they shot the goddamn elephant. How’s Cedric?”

  “As ornery as ever. Didn’t thank me for his dinner last night. No purring. Nothing.”

  She held the smile. “Well, he never did like you.”

  “I’m told the procedure went well, and the prognosis is good. Anything I can do around your place?”

  She exhaled a weak breath. “Aside from Cedric, nothing that can’t wait until Zoe gets here.”

  “Got it. Your niece in Seattle. I talked to her on the phone. When’s she arriving?”

  “As soon as she can find someone to watch her parents’ place. Just talked to her by phone an hour ago. I told her I’d hire a nurse, but she’d have none of it.” The faint smile. “She’s as stubborn as I am.”

  ***

  By the time I left the hospital, the traffic heading south on the 5 was crawling. It was Friday afternoon, after all, in a city that was becoming more crowded with every passing day, it seemed. We were heading back to Dundee to see how things had gone for Timoteo. It was his first day holding down the fort while I manned my pro bono office in Portland.

  He was on the phone when Arch and I let ourselves in the back door. “Not a problem,” he was saying as he looked up at us. He paused. “Would you mind if I put you on hold for a moment?” He pointed at the phone. “It’s Ned Gillian, the attorney of the guy who wants the dog. Do you want to talk to him?”

  I shook my head wearily. “No. Tell him I’ll call him back.”

  Timoteo relayed the message and disconnected.

  “Thanks for that. It’s been a long day. That lawyer’s going to be a pain in the ass, mark my words.” I paused while Timoteo and Archie greeted each other. “How did it go today?”

  He flashed a smile. “Great. You had three walk-ins, and I put them on the calendar for next week.”

  “Nice. That’s three customers who might’ve gotten away. Well done.”

  “You saw my texts. You got a half dozen calls, including the one from the lady in Carlton who’s involved in a lawsuit and needs representation.”